


The Dread And Envy, or, Five Solstices That Could Have Gone Better For England

by gisho



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: 1926 General Strike, American Revolution, Colonialism, English Civil War, First Bishop's War, Gen, Ulster - Freeform, Violence, Zimbabwe, historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gisho/pseuds/gisho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1638, 1782, 1926, 1979, 2007. England would call his brothers stubborn and unreasonable.  His brothers would use rather stronger language. But things do get better, and the darkest nights of the year give them reason to reflect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dread And Envy, or, Five Solstices That Could Have Gone Better For England

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts).



> Originally posted on LiveJournal.

#### [December 21, 1638]

England isn't sure if they are speaking to each other right now.

His brother shakes off his cloak as if he wants to rip it to bits. His steps into the kitchen are enough to make the floor shake. England looks up. Scotland is red-faced, snow dusted thick through his hair. The fire reflects in his eyes. England is sure some smooth-tongued bishop could hang a sermon on the metaphor. Something involving the burning of heretics.

It's the principle of the thing. For his own account England doesn't care if his brother wants to paint himself blue and dance in a ring of stones by moonlight, they're old enough to know that these things change, but his people can't be allowed to flaunt their disobedience.

England isn't sure why he didn't leave when the Commissioner left. Things only got more mad, after. That senseless self-appointed gaggle of churchmen thought they could throw out anything too Popish, and England could only watch and twitch.

Yesterday they decided they were done. Oh, they were _done_ alright, England told himself, and tried to ignore the pounding of his heart, the murmur of sympathy, and feel nothing but what his king would have him feel. Scotland has always been stubborn beyond measure.

His brother stomps over to hover at his shoulder. His breathing is thick and heavy. England doesn't turn around. He would take a sip of ale, but he's not sure if reaching for it could be interpreted as a hostile gesture. The mug is heavy, solid, a good missile if it comes to that. He's not wearing his sword, but he has his dagger. Could he get to it in a hurry?

Wait and see, he decides. Let Scotland move first.

Scotland hisses, "Get out of my chair."

He's speaking Latin. England supposes that's his way of being polite, not making a point with his own tongue. Letting the content do all the menace. He meets politeness with politeness. "I thought I was your guest. Am I expected to crouch on the hearth like a hobgoblin?"

"You are no longer welcome here," Scotland answers. "Get out of my chair." He grabs the back and yanks. If England's reactions were a little slower he would be sprawled on the floor now. As it is, he has to grab the table for balance. It's undignified, and England hates losing his dignity in front of his brothers. From his spot half-curled on the hearth Wales makes a noise that might be a smothered laugh.

He'll have to deal with Wales later. He turns, reaching for his dagger. Scotland is fast, but England is faster, and the clang of metal on metal echoes off the halls, but it does not stop his blade from slipping free, burying itself in his brother's shoulder.

The blood gushes out, slippery and warm and very much alive, and the rush of adrenaline is so strong England almost doesn't feel the gash opening across his scalp. Blood everywhere. Blood in his eyes, and he blinks wildly, trying to orient himself. Steps forward. Slips hard and they both go down, thudding into the flagstones with a hard crack, and Scotland has held onto his knife. He doesn't bother going between the ribs.

No, England tells himself, as his breath shudders loose and the raw end of his broken rib scrapes his lung, no, it can't end like this.

That's not what happens.

He clutches at the table, and does not go for his knife. "Since when," England hisses, "have you had the right to tell me what I can and cannot do?"

"Since you stepped on my land!" And apparently that finishes his store of diplomacy, because he abandons the Latin with his next words. "I should nae have let ye," he opens, and then gives up, it seems, on speech altogether, grabbing England by the collar.

He's won. Of the two of them Scotland may be more brave on the field, but England wins each battle of wits. When matters come to blows, it's already his victory.

No point being chivalrous, with a barbarian like his brother. He brings his knee up sharp. It doesn't connect, but it makes Scotland leap backwards. His oversized fist swings, and connects with the side of England's head, and the world goes slightly swimmy.

The next few seconds are blurred, but at the end of them they have a firm grip on each other's hair and the kitchen table is rocking dangerously, ready to tip. England lets go with one hand to aim a blow up at Scotland's nose. It connects solidly, but the next moment his head is slammed against the wall - more blurring, and England screams. He thinks he's screaming for help. He can't quite make out the words.

He yanks back, counters with a bite at the nearest bit of exposed skin. The neck, as it happens. The bite is deep enough to draw blood, and he does his best to keep it up, right up to the point where Scotland stomps on his foot.

The next clear moment, they are rolling on the floor, doing their best to plant elbows and knees in tender places on each other. Panting, faces flushed, scrabbling at each other for a grip. A dreadful parody, some form of affection. He is sure Scotland has someone else he would rather be rolling about the floor with, someone whose lips he would welcome on his throat.

England has no one, these days.

Wales has not moved from his perch on the hearth. "Wales," England gasps at him. "Come on. Whose side are you on?"

Wales only shakes his head in answer, looking like the gesture pains him. Them Scotland contrives to slam England's wrist against the flagstones, and he rather loses track.

\--

It's raining. Of course it's raining. There is water soaking into his clothes, pouring in rivulets off his placid horse's mane. England has raised his hood against it, but there's no shelter near, and he takes a vicious sort of satisfaction in feeling it beat him down. He never knew how much he loved it until now, the pain and misery of a hard rain, the ache of deep bruises. He must be quite mad.

Quite. It will only get worse.

Yes, he can feel it - coming in quiet, as he starts seeing things that aren't there. Until he can no longer recognise his own face in the mirror, until it wears expressions that aren't his. The last time that happened, it was because he wasn't quite himself. Was still growing. He doesn't like to think about it. He imagines it would be more painful in reverse. England imagines. _England._ He has to be sure who he is.

Which is a pity, since you aren't, you know. Don't annex more than you can assimilate.

He whips his head around - it's the same voice that said _quite_ , and he feels like he should recognise it. Him. Should. "You did get a nasty knock on the head or three. Honestly, Lloegr. For a couple of grown thedes with steady borders you bicker like tribes, I swear." He blinks a few times. Looks over. Wales is beside him, his big grey horse trotting easily over the mud. Even beneath a hood his sodden hair hangs into his eyes.

"I thought you were staying with Scotland," he says. "Have I been talking aloud all this time?"

"Most of it. It's a bad sign, talking to yourself. You're losing it, aren't you." It's not really a question. Wales sighs. "Look you, this is dreadful. You shouldn't be gone half so far yet. I know you don't care that much about the church, nor what your king thinks. What is it? Does it pierce you that cruelly, that Scotland has seen you for the grasping, greedy menace you are?"

He says all this with a soft smile, and England knows he's right, is the trouble, this is too much too soon. His king will not, cannot. let Scotland's disobedience pass without a fight, the overbearing -

That thought wasn't in his voice.

"You don't know who you are, do you. It's been a hundred years for us -"

"Stop it!" He screams it, to make his voice carry over the beating rain. "Stop it, don't speak such things. These are only trifles. Moments of confusion. Hold your tongue."

When there is no noise but the storm he looks over, and lets his hands drop from his ears. His horse is breathing hard with exertion, he with nervous fear.

He's alone.

He is England. He will do what he must, and not as his brothers bid him. This petty madness will pass.

England does not look back. His brother must have fallen in behind him, is all, and it would do no good to count the hoofprints.

\--

 

 

#### [December 21, 1783]

England is drunk. This is nothing new. He's curled up by the fire, muttering to himself. Granted, he's been drunk a bit longer than usual, this time. A week? Maybe a little more; Wales isn't keeping very good track. He's left Scotland to do most of the looking-after, and the cooking; Scotland's idea of cuisine is - well, at least it's good for keeping the cold out.

That leaves Wales to sit outside and guard the house. It's annoying, trying to read while his fingers are turning blue, but at least nobody will bother him without good reason, and after he drove the first three messengers away with sticks, the King seems to have accepted that England just isn't talking to anyone right now.

The door creaks. Wales looks up. Scotland is shouldering his way outside, looming in the doorway light, arms crossed. "You must be freezing," he declares without preamble.

It's in simple southern English, with only a touch of an accent, and not Scottish. Wales has been waiting to make an issue of that for some years; he expects the jibes will only work under Scotland's skin once, before they start sliding off. To bring it up now would be a waste. Wales shrugs. "Yes," he says instead, because agreeing with people tends to catch them off guard.

Scotland blinks a few times, then scowls. "Well, come inside, there's a fire going."

"No," Wales says, and carefully turns a page.

"What? Why not? You could freeze out here!"

"No." Wales sighs; their kind are quite difficult to kill.

"Are ye planning to use more than a monosyllable to answer me?"

Scotland's accent is slipping back as he gets more annoyed, Wales notes. "No."

He stands still for a few seconds, arms tense and beard bristling. Then he bursts out, "Fine! Fine, ye daft pillock, but don't expect that I should haul ye in to thaw!" The door slams behind him, and his boots are very audible as he stamps off.

 _Point to me,_ Wales thinks. It's getting dark. He stuffs the book in his pocket, then rubs his hands together, trying to get a little blood flowing, staring up at the slate-grey sky.

\--

By the time Wales creeps back inside it's snowing, and any sensible inhabitants of the house would long since have gone to bed. A pity, then, that there are no sensible inhabitants. England is passed out in his chair by the fire, and Scotland is sitting on the hearth, wide awake and stone-cold sober, as is made obvious when he calls out, as Wales pauses in the door, "Come on in, he's out cold."

He moves over to sit beside his brother, hunched in on himself. England is drooling in his sleep, he notices. It might do something unpleasant to the upholstery. "Do you think he might drag himself out of it by Christmas?"

"I doubt it."

"There, then, that's lucky. Perhaps our goose will only be cooked and not charred."

"Aye." Scotland harumphs, shifting closer to Wales. "It's possible. Do you think he'll be better by spring?"

Are we ever not? Wales wants to ask, but instead he shrugs.

They sit in more-or-less companionable silence for a while, watching the fire sputter itself out. Scotland slumps forward, chin propped on his hands. His ruddy hair gleams copper in the firelight.

"He still has the other lad," Scotland says after a while. "Canada. And the West Indies, and . . . He's no reason to be so sad."

Wales shrugs. "Well, either he'll drag himself out of it, or he'll drink himself to death. Probably the former, more's the pity."

That gets a laugh. "And here I thought I was vicious."

"We neither of us have any cause to love him."

"Aye, but . . . " The motion of Scotland's hands is like someone trying to strangle an invisible opponent. He has big hands. It's very expressive. "He's our brother," he goes on, helplessly.

Which is the heart of the matter. He's their brother, and he is in pain, and however little cause they have to love him, they still do. Family feuds are the worst. They'd had their chances; they could have decided long ago that he no longer counted as family, but that chance is past.

Family is a curious thing, for their kind. They have three parents, or seven, or one, or none at all. They love their relatives, or resent them, or both at once. Even their identities blur; they fade into each other at the edges, and every person who crosses a border to live in a new land, every person with a mother of one nation and a father of another who has never found a reason to choose - every one makes the edges of their souls a little less obvious.

England, half-curled in his chair, shifts his head and begins to snore. It sounds like a death-rattle, raw and tremulous.

It's a ghastly sound, but all sounds are ghastly at this hour. Scotland sighs, and unfolds himself from the hearth. "Come on," he says. "Don't think anyone remembered the fire in your room. You'd best bunk in with me if you don't want your toes freezing off. I warn you, if you steal the covers I'll toss you out, cold feet or no."

A kind offer with a cloak of anger. Typical of his brother. Wales smiles, in hopes of diffusing the threat. "Alright. I'll just put some more wood on the fire first."

"What? Let him freeze," Scotland growls.

"He'll be mad at us."

"He'll be too drunk to care. Did nae even know I was here." He points at the bottle beside the armchair. It's open, half-empty. Wales wonders what it signifies, that England is drinking port wine. He'd picked spirits for his last long bender, whisky mostly, with occasional forays into liqueur. Of course, that time he'd not spoken at all, and scarcely left his bed, for the better part of two months. That was more than a century past, and Wales had been the only one who stayed close by, to bring him more drink when his bottle ran dry, to be sure England survived it, though all his better instincts had screamed at him to flee while he still had the chance. There was an exquisite sickness to it, staying by free choice in that same house where he had been imprisoned. England had never asked why. But then, it would only have been twisting the knife to let England know he was the object of pity.

England had not started drinking when Ireland walked out last year - out of the house, and out of his chokehold, even if they share a king still. There had not even been the customary screaming and throwing of small objects that accompanied their arguments. He had taken the news with flat, dead-eyed calm, and only the clenching of his fists had betrayed any emotion at all. Perhaps England thought Ireland's leaving meant little, as long as her parliament was under his king's thumb, her people still fought in his wars. Perhaps America's declaration cut deeper, full as it was of new paths and burnt bridges. Perhaps the effect was cumulative.

"You can't keep playing his lackey forever, you know," Scotland says. He says it in Gaelic. To drive home the point, maybe. "One of these days he'll swallow you whole."

Wales doesn't answer.

He does not follow Scotland from the room. He does not add to the fire, either, only watches it flicker slowly towards darkness.

They have three parents, or seven, or none at all, depending on perspective. They inherit land, blood, dreams, and memories. England and Scotland both have spent so long, Wales thinks, with so many voices in their heads - memories of battles from both sides, thoughts in every language that's touched their shores, sick with the dark certainty that some portion of themselves is an old enemy waiting for the most perfect of moments for a stab in the back - they forgot what it was like, to know their own selves. Highland and Lowland and Shetland, British and Saxon and Dane, none quite willing to be subsumed. It must have hurt.

If England swallows him whole, he will be the loudest of all the ghosts. There will be no dream he does not inhabit, no argument that passes his brother's lips without a shadow of questions in his mind, no moment alone he does not think he is watched.

He knows who he is. There is no reason England should forget him.

When Wales does finally make his way to bed, he lays his cold feet on Scotland's calves. His brother yelps, and kicks at him, but Wales expected that. "Hush," he says. "Just letting you know."

"Know what?" Scotland mumbles, sleep-blurred and bitter.

"That I was here."

Scotland snorts, and tugs him close. "I'd have worked it out. No one could mistake you."

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"Never mind," Wales says, and pulls the blanket over his head. "Go to sleep."

\--

 

 

#### [December 21, 1926]

Scotland saws at the burnt hunk of ham that England apparently feels is an appropriate meal. Should never have let England cook. Burnt ham, rock-hard potatoes, limp green things, and too-strong red wine for all three of them. Ulster is trying to be polite, be can tell, but she only managed a few sips before she shoved the glass aside. He'll have to take the lass something better, later on. When England is in bed. They have bread and cheese, even if England doesn't seem to think either is worth eating.

England's looking at him like he thinks Scotland's about to leap at him with the knife. Tempting, to be sure. But it wouldn't really solve anything. He could ask straight out, maybe. His fingers tighten on the knife, and he's just about to when England clears his throat. "Will you be deserting us for your sybaritic pagan New Year festivities as usual, Scotland?"

"Aye," he answers, instead of the first five remarks that come to mind. "Will ye be removing the stick from your arse long enough to let Ulster come with me?"

"That's hardly necessary," snaps England. His face is growing steadily redder.

"An why not?"

His mouth snaps open and shut, like a particularly stupid trout. "You - She stays with me," he declares. "I can't imagine what you think she would learn from that - thing. Hogmanner."

"Hogmanay."

" _In any case_ , the question does not arise. We will be departing to visit India on the twenty-eighth. I only asked," England informs him with a sniff, "to find out if I would need to engage someone to look after the cats." He goes back to sawing at his ham, as if it had done him a personal injury.

How he doesn't explode under the strain of having such a fucking swelled head, Scotland doesn't know. "Let the moggies fend for themselves, it'll do them good," he says. "Ye've got mice aplenty."

Ulster coughs, looking down at the table. "Not that many," she says. High-pitched - well, she's a wee thing still - and quiet, and that's all because England is snappish, for all he always says he's sorry, after. Angry or far too soppish, depending on his mood.

Not that he's any better, Scotland knows, when he's being honest with himself.

Wales was the only one of them who seemed to know how to deal with Ulster, and they've not seen him since May. _He'll be back when he's through with his little snit_ , England had said, and then _He'll be back when he runs out of money,_ as if their kind could while their people were fed, as if he couldn't work for money. Last time he took it in his head to run off, he spent three years as a farmhand before they worked out where he'd gone.

 _He'll be back,_ England had said, _when he works out he has no reason nor right to leave. He is still part of this country._ That was what Scotland feared: that they would never see him again, that he had faded into England, vanishing in sullen silence and fleeing to keep them from knowing. _He'll be back,_ England had said, but England has been known to lie, and to delude himself. _Until then I don't want to hear his name, understand?_

There was another name he didn't want to hear, but he has no choice now but to deal with Ireland on equal terms. It rankles, and that shows. Scotland is sure that if England knew how much time they spend together still, he'd - well, it might be enough to get him throwing things.

"You can't expect housecats to feed themselves on mice." England sounds scandalised. "I suppose if I left out food, it might be alright. If you'll only be gone for a day or two."

"You worry too much." Scotland manages to get his fork through a piece of potato, and holds it up to take a look. It doesn't _look_ that bad.

"Someone has to."

Ulster looks at her plate and swings her legs back and forth. Scotland doesn't say anything. It'd do no good if he did.

\--

On his way to Ulster's room Scotland nearly trips over a cat. He yelps, and the cat meows piteously.

"Don't try that on me," he growls. "I'm nae such a soft touch as England." Then he feels ridiculous for talking to a cat. He balances the plates on his arm to open the door, and can't really be arsed to keep the cat out.

Of course the bloody thing almost trips him again going in, and of course then it leaps onto the bed, and Ulster cries out "Peebles!" and starts petting it. Figures, she notices the cat first. The cats never snap at her.

He stands there all awkward and out-of-place until she looks up from the purring tabby lump. "Oh, you brought supper? Come sit, silly." She pats the bed beside her, and Scotland settles down, trying not to crowd her. "Fanks awfly," she mumbles around her first mouthful.

They're almost through before she says anything else, blinking up at him. Scotland finds himself thinking what a wee thing she is. He could pick her up one-handed. "How come you never make supper?"

"Because England is a bastard," he says before he can think about it, which isn't quite politic, but it's true enough. Makes Ulster giggle, at least. Scotland shrugs. Might as well go on being impolitic. "Thinks if he cannae make a fry-up that's not burnt, no one can make one worth eating."

"He told me nothing you make is good for me. Except oatmeal." Ulster blinks at the certainly-good-for-her rarebit. Scotland didn't stint the butter, and by his lights that makes it plenty good.

"Aye, well, he tried to give you red wine," he growls. "You're too little for aught but beer. Why he canna just hire a cook I've no idea. He's the sodding British Empire," as he keeps telling them, "he can afford it."

"Maybe I could cook."

Maybe she could. She does take after Ireland - same smile, same friendliness, same frightful temper - and Ireland made a fine stew. Not much else. Wales was the best cook of the lot of them, though Scotland fancies he's not bad at his own dishes -

Is. Is the best cook. He's too bloodyminded not to come back.

Ulster has gone back to petting the cat, who seems to have settled down on her pillow. At least it'll spare Scotland putting up with the meowing in the morning, likely. He's Peebles's favourite, for some reason, and for some reason England's moggies all seem immune to closed doors. He clears his throat. "So. How long are ye two off to India for?"

"I don't know. A while. England said I'd have an _enriching educational experience._ Is that like school?"

"Shouldn't think so." Not if England has any sense, but it's hard to tell these days.

"Maybe I can learn to make curry." She brightens. "Maybe Orissa will show me how. He let me ride his elephant, did I tell you that?"

"A dozen times." It had apparently been one of the highlights of their last visit.

"Oh. Sorry."

"No need." He ruffles her hair. "'Tis good you enjoyed yourself. You do the same this time, you hear? Tell England from me, there's enrichin' educational experiences and there's turning a trip dull, and I'll expect a full report when you're back."

"I will," she solemnly says. Then, to his surprise, she turns and hugs him.

He nearly drops his plate, trying to keep it out of her way. "Lass?"

"Thank you." Her words are muffled against his jumper.

He helplessly ruffles her hair again. "What for?"

"Supper."

She's so sweet, and so very fond of them, even if England's done damn little to deserve it. She _wanted_ to stay with them. She asked. That should be some kind of reassurance - that however eager the political union, it won't make them fade away. That language and leaders and common blood are nothing to their kind, next to sheer bloodymindedness. He should know that already. If it weren't true England would never have become England.

He never mentions Ulster's name in front of Ireland. He doesn't know what to think about it all.

"No trouble," he mumbles. "Just make sure that cat stays here all night. Don't fancy getting woken up with meowing."

"I'll try," Ulster says. "But, you know, he's a cat."

\--

 

 

#### [December 21, 1979]

The phone rings close to midnight, but Northern Ireland isn't in bed yet. Isn't even thinking about it; she's been sitting up watching telly, not really paying attention to what's on, at a volume almost too low to hear. The noise startles her out of a half-doze. She grabs the phone from the end table, where England leaves it so he can field the less engrossing sort of Vital Government Consultation without setting aside his embroidery, and manages to pick it up the right way round on the second try. "Hello?"

"Ulster?" He sounds dead tired. No surprise there. "You weren’t sitting up for me, were you?"

"Of course not," she lies.

"Ah. I'm sorry I woke you, then."

"It's fine. Where the fuck are you, England?"

"A young lady shouldn't use such language," he says automatically, and then clears his throat. "Er. Well. Still at Lancaster House, I'm afraid. Our boss said she had some little things to talk to me about and they turned out to be big things, you know how it is. Done with now, at least. For today."

Northern Ireland sighs, and tucks her feet underneath her. "Let me guess. You're going to Zimbabwe?"

"Yes. I suppose it's only right I see it through." The line goes quiet for a moment, and then England adds, entirely too bright, "I suppose I should use that name now, shouldn't I? Should be used to it by now. Suppose I can't blame the lad. Southern Rhodesia's not much of a name."

Their kind have to know how to adjust. The world changes, and names change with it. She's seen it from the inside - puts up with _Ulster_ from England still, because he makes it sound like a pet name, but of the others who bother talking to her, a few firm words were enough. Northern Ireland. She chuckles. "He's been using it for ages. It was his grandmother's, you know? He was telling me about it back in November. Grandmother on the Shona side, I think it was." He'd also been complaining, at great length, about his parents and their inability to coexist. North could relate to that, if not exactly. She'd wondered if it was better or worse, being her own little territory, and not an agglomeration of her parents' lands. It made it easier on everyone else's nerves. Harder on hers. She lived with the insistent possibility of fading away into Ireland, and Zimbabwe had the long question - when, or if ever, his parents would fade into him. How long they would live in his house until the echoes faded.

Or if they would rip him apart first. That's always an option.

"Grandmother," England murmurs, wistful, and laughs. "I think I'm older than his grandmother, you know. I'm an old man. Set in my ways."

Northern Ireland swings her legs off the couch, stretching as best she can without dropping the phone. "Not that set, now."

"But that old?"

"Well. Pretty much." She tucks the phone against her shoulder, and tries to remember if the cord will stretch to the refrigerator. Maybe if she picks up the phone? "But you admitted it yourself, England."

He sighs again. "Can't be helped. Better than the alternative."

"What, being young and flexible?"

"Being dead at five centuries." His voice is hollow, utterly devoid, suddenly, of any trace of humour. Northern Ireland doesn't know how to answer that, so she doesn't. There's an uncomfortable pause, and then he speaks again, suddenly, voice rough. "I just keep thinking about Northumbria. You won't remember him. Before your time. But the last I saw him was - hell. Centuries ago. That's how I know I'm old, isn't it? Memory's going. The Rising of the North, it was called."

"Fifteen sixty-nine," North tells him. The words come automatically, however unsure she is. It can't be good for England to get nostalgic like this. Serves him right, maybe.

"Thank you. See, all those history lessons were good for something."

"There's things called encyclopedias, you know."

"Yes, well, the library's closed. Anyhow." He clears his throat. "Northumbria. He was - a difficult fellow, you know. Quite like Scotland, really. Stubborn. Bullheaded, even. Not so loud, though. Bookish, I guess you'd say - he always used to bugger off talking to monks instead of paying attention to his bosses. And when we - " He breaks off. A deep breath, audible even over the telephone line. England's accent is shading to Cockney as he talks, which it does when he's drunk, or exhausted, or stressed from dealing with politicians. "When I took over his lands - I figured nothing would change much. He'd be around somewhere. And for a few centuries, nothing was. I didn't make him come stay with me. Didn't see the point. Saw him sometimes. Less and less. And one day I realised, it'd been so long I had to stop and count. I thought that was it. He'd gone and nobody'd even noticed."

They hadn't noticed Wales had left, until they went to drag him into the last fight with Scotland and found nothing in his room but a change of clothes and a ragged copy of _Beowulf_ with nasty notes about the translation scribbled in the margins. He'd moved out a suitcase at a time. But he turned up enough, at odd moments, there had never been a question whether he was still living

Northern Ireland picks up the phone base and unwinds the cord hopefully from the ugly porcelain thing England for some reason thought made a good lamp. No telling, with England in a mood like this. "But he wasn't.

"No. I saw him one more time." An uncomfortable pause. "You - you don't mind living with me, do you, Ulster?"

"It's okay. I miss my flat, but - " but she's not going to have the shouting match, not tonight, not with what's going on with Zimbabwe. "It's good having company. You've been awfully nice."

He puts up with her screaming fits. Wakes her from nightmares. He probably had plenty of practise.

It will get better, she tells herself, it has to get better.

"Good." He sounds so relieved she's almost sorry for him.

"You're worried, aren't you."

England takes a while to answer that one. "Just tired, I think," he says. This is surprising frankness, but he must have been doing a lot of reflecting lately. "We all must get like this at the end. There's never any doing these things without bloodshed. No matter where we put the borders, someone will be angry, someone will think they've been cheated, someone will start waving a sword around - I should have known it wouldn't last, you know? I thought maybe, just maybe, if we were sensible, it could stop being about blood just for a little while. It could be about spices, and textiles, and tea. That the humans would settle down and forget in a generation or two. One big happy family. Should have known better, shouldn't I?"

"Yeah, you kinda should have." Northern Ireland tugs the phone cord from behind the sofa. No, no way she's getting it over to the fridge. The windows, maybe, but not the fridge.

On the phone England sighs. "I'm sorry. This is all - you shouldn't have to listen to an old man rambling about his glory days. You've got your own problems to worry about."

She could say a lot of things to that. She could laugh it off. Change the subject, maybe - ask how long he'll be gone, if he wants Northern Ireland to come with him, who'll look after things back at Westminster or if he's settling for making a lot of long-distance phone calls. Or she could try to be genuinely reassuring. Remind him that even if Scotland-their-brother stormed out nine months ago in a haze of profanities, his people didn't show up with swords and pitchforks when the referendum went south. Once nobody would even have proposed the referendum. Things do get better.

She can't use herself as an example, though.

Far below, she can make out the lights of London. Streetlamps, bright windows, all very impressive from the twenty-seventh floor. Probably it was the view that England picked this place for, when he'd decided it wasn't worth hoping Scotland and Wales would move back in. A nice, modern little flat, not too far from the centre of London. Vast improvement, he'd said, on that oversize doddering pile. Just for the two of them. Northern Ireland curls her toes in the thick rug and cradles the phone close. "Yes. And you've got a lot of other nations' problems to worry about, too. I don't think that's ever going to change."

"Hah. I could do with a bit of isolation. Just worry about you. And Wales and Scotland, even if they are ungrateful antisocial gits."

"And Gilbraltar."

"Well, yes. And Hong Kong, naturally. Falklands. Bermuda."

"Oz and New Zealand probably deserve some worrying, too."

"Well, yes, they're family, I wasn't intending to exclude them - "

"And the rest of the Commonwealth, come to think of it. Plus whatever that weird thing you have with America, he worries about you, you know, you might as well worry about him - "

"Yes, yes, I get it, the mighty power of global trade networks and intercontinental alliances." He's grumbling, but he's back to Received Pronunciation, which is a good sign. "I've only been dealing with global politics for a thousand years, of course I have no idea that it doesn't really work like that. It'd just be nice, is all."

"Well, you can dream about it," Northern Ireland says. "If you ever get to bed. It's so late it's almost early, you know?"

"You're right. I'm sure if I stay here any longer someone will work out where I've gone and try to throw more paperwork at me. There must be a taxi around somewhere. I'll be home as soon as I can. Don't wait up, alright? No point in both of us losing sleep over Zimbabwe."

"G'night, then."

"Good night."

She settles the phone back on its table, and pads over to the balcony door. It's miserably cold out, she's sure, but she wants the fresh air.

Outside the cold concrete makes her feet hurt. The view is even better, though. She can make out the dark ribbon of the Thames, a few lights on the West India Docks. England had pointed them out, when they moved in. They were going to be shut down next year; nobody used them anymore. All the big container ships couldn't use them, and that was what mattered now.

Still a beautiful view.

The planter is full of brown stalks, the desiccated ruins of last summer's flowers. She plucks one out at random and tosses it off the balcony, into the dark.

\--

 

#### [December 21, 2009]

Australia raises his beer can with a broad grin. "Happy Solstice."

"Happy Solstice," England echoes, and leans back on his beach chair. The sunset makes his face look even redder than it is. The sea is glittering in that peculiar, glorious way that only happens when the light is running across it almost parallel, or as close to parallel as one can get to a curved surface - but then, the sun is bigger than the earth, so when it falls this low there's something parallel all the way from the horizon to the beach, isn't there? New Zealand remembers England trying patiently to explain all this at some point, but the explanation was interrupted by Australia marching into the study to proudly display a scorpion he'd just found on the porch, and the ensuing attempts to get the scorpion _out_ as quickly as possible had rather interrupted things.

There are just enough clouds to be interesting, too, bright orange and golden in patches until they turn blue overhead. "Happy Solstice," New Zealand declares, and pops open another can. "I love the summer, don't you?"

England snorts. "Oh yes. Can you believe, Scotland and Wales turned this down to spend their holidays in Dublin? Dublin, of all places. Dark, dreary, _damp_ Dublin."

"Hey, is it raining in Britain right now?"

"You have to ask?" England's laugh is more like a bark, and then he hiccups. It would take away any pretence of dignity, if he hadn't abandoned it much earlier in the evening. "It's December. Why do you think I come down here for Christmas all the time?"

 _Because you never really felt like a part of your own family,_ , New Zealand doesn't say, and shrugs. The sand feels very good on bare feet, still. Warm. "You like the surfing?"

"Please. As if I would be caught dead on a surfboard."

Australia leans over and stage-whispers in New Zealand's ear: "Last time he tried it he fell off, nearly drowned, and got stung by a jellyfish."

England reaches down for a handful of sand to throw at them, but it's half-hearted.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> All the history here is far more complicated than author's notes could do justice to, and I apologise for glossing over things.
> 
> In 1638, twenty-five years after James VI of Scotland inherited the throne of England and set about trying to unite the kingdoms, the attempts of King Charles I to interfere in the Scottish church, increasing the numbers of bishops and introducing a new liturgy, came to a head. A general assembly of the church met with the King's representatives in Glasgow in an attempt to work out a compromise; the king's Commissioner, the Marquis of Hamilton, left the assembly in November when no sign of compromise was at hand, but the Assembly continued into December, voting to nullify the changes in religious law and depose all Scottish bishops. Charles I responded by sending an army to impose his will, leading to the First Bishop's War. Charles was already unpopular at home due to his autocratic rule and belief in Divine Right of Kings. The conflict inspired a rebellion in Ireland, and the king's arguments with parliament over the costs of raising an army eventually inspired a civil war in England. Charles I eventually lost his head, literally, and Parliamentarian leader Oliver Cromwell soon became military dictator of Britain. The entire messy period is known as the Wars of the Three Kingdoms.
> 
> The American War of Independence effectively ended in 1781; the Treaty of Paris, formally ending the war, was signed in 1783, and the last British troops left New York in early December. During the war, a force known as the Irish Volunteers was formed to protect the British Isles against a potential sea invasion by the French navy. The invasion was turned aside before it could make landfall. However, the Volunteers proved to be a powerful political influence, and in 1782 a number of laws were passed reducing the influence of the British government on Ireland, collectively known as the Constitution of 1782; although the countries retained a common monarch, Ireland had a degree of political independence from Great Britain for the first time in centuries. The response was a swell of patriotic feeling and demands for further reform, including extending the vote to Catholics. By 1798 discontent had swelled to a rebellion. In 1800, after the rebellion was put down, Ireland was formally incorporated into the United Kingdom and its independent parliament abolished.
> 
> Ireland left the United Kingdom in 1922. Northern Ireland remained with the UK, having been given the chance to vote separately on secession. The land was populated largely by the descendants of English and Scottish settlers from the early 17th century, who were granted lands in Ulster confiscated from the leaders of the rebellion known as the Nine Years War. By the 1970s, conflict between mostly-Protestant Unionists (who wanted to remain in the UK) and mostly-Catholic Nationalists (who wanted Northern Ireland to join the Republic of Ireland) had erupted into a low-level civil war, known, in the grand British tradition of understatement, as The Troubles. In May of 1926, workers across the UK participated in a nine-day general strike in support of coal miners seeking to prevent reduction in wages and the implementation of longer working hours. The general strike was called off after nine days; miners remained on strike for several months, but were eventually forced to return to work at lowered wages. The strike inspired changes in labour laws including the prohibition of future sympathy strikes.
> 
> Zimbabwe was a British colony known as Southern Rhodesia, until in 1965, a unilateral declaration of Independence was made - ironically, by a white settler faction afraid of losing their privileged position in the face of democratic elections, as the British Empire was by this point being dismantled from the top. Two native nationalist organisations emerged, the Zimbabwe African People's Union and the Zimbabwe African National Union, divided roughly along ethnic lines between the Shona and amaNdebele (also known as Matabele) people. ZAPU was backed by the Soviet Union, and ZANU by China. They fought the white-led national government and sometimes each other until 1979, when an agreement was brokered (the Lancaster House Agreement) under which Zimbabwe would be returned briefly to British control while national elections open to all were organised. Elections were held in February of 1980, but conflict continued. The name 'Zimbabwe' derives from Great Zimbabwe, the capital of a Shona kingdom that dominated the area from the 12th to 15th centuries.
> 
> The flat with the very nice view, although I never managed to mention it in the fic, is in Balfron Tower, an, er, interesting building designed by Erno Goldfinger and built in 1967. As for the West India Docks, the area was redeveloped and is now Canary Wharf, home to some of the world's biggest banks and media companies. What goes around comes around.


End file.
